‘She is papa’s wife,’ said Molly, quietly.  ’I don’t mean to say I am not often very sorry to feel I am no longer first with him; but it was’—­the violent colour flushed into her face till even her eyes burnt, and she suddenly found herself on the point of crying; the weeping ash-tree, the misery, the slow dropping comfort;’ and the comforters came all so vividly before her;—­’it was Roger!’—­she went on looking up at Cynthia, as she overcame her slight hesitation at mentioning his name—­’Roger, who told me how I ought to take papa’s marriage, when I was first startled and grieved at the news.  Oh, Cynthia, what a great thing it is to be loved by him!’

Cynthia blushed, and looked fluttered and pleased.

’Yes, I suppose it is.  At the same time, Molly, I’m afraid he’ll expect me to be always as good as he fancies me now, and I shall have to walk on tip-toe all the rest of my life.’

‘But you are good, Cynthia,’ put in Molly.

’No, I’m not.  You’re just as much mistaken as he is; and some day I shall go down in your opinions with a run, just like the hall clock the other day when the spring broke.’

‘I think he’ll love you just as much,’ said Molly.

’Could you?  Would you be my friend if—­if it turned out ever that I had done very wrong things?  Would you remember how very difficult it has sometimes been to me to act rightly’ (she took hold of Molly’s hand as she spoke).  ’We won’t speak of mamma, for your sake as much as mine or hers; but you must see she is not one to help a girl with much good advice, or good—–­Oh, Molly, you don’t know how I was neglected just at a time when I wanted friends most.  Mamma does not know it; it is not in her to know what I might have been if I had only fallen into wise, good hands.  But I know it; and what’s more,’ continued she, suddenly ashamed of her unusual exhibition of feeling, ’I try not to care, which I daresay is really the worst of all; but I could worry myself to death if I once took to serious thinking.’

‘I wish I could help you, or even understand you,’ said Molly, after a moment or two of sad perplexity.

‘You can help me,’ said Cynthia, changing her manner abruptly.  ’I can trim bonnets, and make head-dresses; but somehow my hands can’t fold up gowns and collars, like your deft little fingers.  Please will you help me to pack?  That’s a real, tangible piece of kindness, and not sentimental consolation for sentimental distresses, which are, perhaps, imaginary after all.’

In general, it is the people who are left behind stationary, who give way to low spirits at any parting; the travellers, however bitterly they may feel the separation, find something in the change of scene to soften regret in the very first hour of separation.  But as Molly walked home with her father from seeing Mrs. Gibson and Cynthia off to London by the ‘Umpire’ coach, she almost danced along the street.

‘Now, papa!’ said she, ’I’m going to have you all to myself for a whole week.  You must be very obedient.’